


Wishes

by SweetDragonSeeker



Category: Anna Dressed in Blood - Kendare Blake
Genre: F/M, Romance, short and simple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 06:29:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1169795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetDragonSeeker/pseuds/SweetDragonSeeker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's all out of wishes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wishes

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Anna. Or anything associated with her. Originally posted to ff.net.

Cas usually sleeps on his side, one arm curved up to vanish beneath the pillow where his fingers can touch the athame, the other draped loosely over his stomach, above the blankets. She can't sleep, but she keeps him company each night, curled against his back with her forehead touching his shoulder and one hand resting on his side, just above his hip. He isn't a deep sleeper, being capable of waking up at the slightest sound of footsteps on the stairs or voices outside the window, but he never seems bothered by her presence, even when she squirms against his spine or lets her hand move from his hip to rest over his heart, where she can feel the steady rhythm of his pulse beneath his skin. She likes that he's so at ease with her, even though he shouldn't be.

He sleeps deeper on the nights immediately following a successful kill, sprawled on his back as though he couldn't bother to roll onto his side, one hand still reaching for the knife beneath his pillow, but the other almost always thrown out to his side, palm up. Sometimes, on those nights, she traces the lines in that hand, memorizes them, imagines that they mean that he will have a long, good life, though she'll never know for sure what they say. More often, however, she simply lies in the cradle that his extended arm makes, and gazes at the planes of his face, tracing them over with her eyes or, if his slumber is deep enough, her fingers, gliding them along his nose and lips and cheekbones until he stirs, pulling her into his side and burying his face in her hair without ever really waking. Then she just lies there, content to rest her head on his chest and hear as well as feel the steady beat of his heart. She thinks if she could fall asleep, it would be to that sound.

He often suffers from nightmares, bad dreams that she does her best to interrupt whenever they occur by shaking his shoulder or stroking his hair, saying his name and pulling him back to wakefulness with her touch and the sound of her voice. They are worse, however, on the nights leading up to a kill, terrible dreams from which she can't wake him, no matter how hard she tries. She always knows when they start; he never screams or thrashes, but she feels him go stiff and his breathing shortens from his natural sleeping rhythm to one that is far too fast and erratic. She hates just lying there as he suffers through those dreams, facing his inner demons without her at his side, but she does, and when he finally wakes, jerking bolt upright with his skin shining and his hair damp with sweat, she folds herself into his arms as though it were she who lived through hell. Which, she supposes, she has, though hers does not haunt her in inescapable visions as his does. He never goes back to sleep on those nights, often getting up to do research or work out or run; sometimes he just sits there in bed, leaning back against the headboard and holding her close with his eyes closed and his forehead against her hair. She knows that if she had a wish, it would be to spend a lifetime in his arms.

But she's all out of wishes.


End file.
